


The Fall

by erinacea



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, BFFs, Canon Compliant, Developing Friendships, Fallen Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fallen Angels, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hell, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Male Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23109235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erinacea/pseuds/erinacea
Summary: When Aziraphale Falls from Heaven, Crowley's determined not to let this change anything. If an angel and a demon can be friends, surely so can two demons. That should be easy. Right?Well... no. As it turns out, that's a lot more difficult than expected.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 50





	1. The Pits

Crowley _feels_ it when it happens. One moment, he's idly zapping through the cartoon network; the next, an insistent force presses him into his chair as if trying to drag his soul Hell-wards. The room violently spins around him, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut, and it's almost like he's Falling again as he did all those thousands of years ago. When the world once again comes into focus, it takes him a few seconds to process what's just happened, but then the realization jolts him right out of his chair.

“Oh no,” he groans, “please, no...”

An angel Falling is a momentous occasion, and each time, there's a tiny part in every demon that resonates in memory. The difference is that for every other demon, it's just one more angel joining the Legion of the Damned. For Crowley, however, the angel's identity makes all the difference in the world.

Crowley glances at his watch. At this time of day, long after lunch but before closing time, Aziraphale's almost guaranteed to be holed up in his bookshop with a book and a mug of tea or hot cocoa. Crowley speed-dials Aziraphale's number and spends the next thirty, forty, sixty seconds anxiously pacing his study, trying not to imagine the worst. A silent prayer accompanies each of his steps. _Come on, you idiot, pick up the phone._ At one point, he hangs up in frustration, only to, seconds later, dial the same number again.

Still, when Aziraphale fails to answer the phone, it's easy to come up with any number of perfectly reasonable explanations. _The angel's so engrossed in a book that he doesn't hear the phone. He's talking to a customer and too polite to interrupt the conversation despite the persistent ringing in the background. He's not even in the shop right now because he's stepped out for a chocolate croissant, or a bite of sushi, or whatever else has taken his fancy._

But deep in his heart, Crowley knows he's just fooling himself. They'd always known this was a risk, and in all honesty, Aziraphale Falling is still the better option. At least it means he's still alive. Crowley may have hoped it would never come to this, but he hadn't been naïve enough to really believe it. Without even bothering to turn off the TV, he rushes into his bedroom, where he yanks the carpet aside to reveal the perfect pentagram he'd drawn with indelible marker shortly after he'd moved in and then brushed up with fresh chicken blood every couple of months. A shoebox at the bottom of his wardrobe still contains the black wax candles which he now places at each of the pentagram's corners and lights with a snap of his fingers. Static electricity fills the room, followed by an eerie red light, and then a portal to Hell flickers into existence.

Normally, when visiting the downstairs office, Crowley would enter through one of the official entry points conveniently located in central London. But today, that would take too much time. Time that Aziraphale doesn't have.

The standard procedure in Hell is to let new arrivals stew in their misery until their personal pool of molten sulphur either solidifies or they manage to crawl out by themselves, whichever happens first. In a way, 'help' is one of Hell's taboo four-letter words, especially when applied to angels. After all, thousands of years ago, when the first angels were thrown from Heaven to become today's demons, all the other angels stood by and watched in silence. So when the tables are turned, most demons would rather chop off their own hands than ease a Fallen angel's torment. From a demon's viewpoint, a bit of suffering's nothing more than what an angel deserves. If queried, Crowley might even agree with this statement, provided it leaves room for one specific exception.

He remembers only too clearly, though he wishes he wouldn't, his own arrival in Hell. The bewildered terror he'd been unable to articulate. Helplessly floundering, trying not to drown in the liquid sulphur burning its way through his lungs. The agony that had taken possession of both his body and soul. All this with seconds stretching like hours, and days into eternity. He can't - _won't_ let Aziraphale be tortured like that. Crowley takes a deep breath and steps into the pentagram. Instantly, the sputtering flames throw the rest of the room into shadow. The portal's outline flares, casting grotesque figures on the walls, engaged in a bizarre dance to the sound of a softly hissing beat. Then an invisible hook buries itself in the pit of Crowley's stomach and yanks him into the fiery depths.

When, moments later, he materializes in Hell's basement office floor, as close to the entrance to the Landing Pits as he'd dared, he can almost taste the excitement in the air, so very different from the usual sombre atmosphere. Gleeful whispers mingle with the sulphurous stench and the oppressive heat in a potent mixture that makes his skin crawl.

“ _... centuries since the last one ...”_

“ _Almost a thousand years, I think ...”_

“ _Did you feel it, too?”_

“ _... sure serves him right!”_

Outside of the semi-optional after-work parties, Crowley's never seen any of Hell's floors this crowded. When someone cranks up the electronic music, the floor and walls begin to pulse with the beat, and the impromptu dance floor quickly fills with twitching demons. Their yelling and grunting drowns out the gossipy whispers. However, it can't silence the sound of Aziraphale's agonized screams echoing in Crowley's mind, that he's almost, _almost_ sure is just his imagination. He starts pushing himself through the crowd when a scorpion-tailed demon grabs him by an arm to drag him into the swirl of dancing bodies. Hissing, Crowley wrests himself free.

Her tail flicks threateningly. “What's wrong with you? Haven't you heard?” Her ruby eyes glitter with malice as she makes another attempt to seize him. “Another Fallen angel!”

Crowley dances out of her stinger's reach. “Do I look like I care?” he snarls. Of course, his very presence here exposes this attitude as the lie it is, but in this environment, contempt and lying both count in his favour. As he shoulders his way through the throng, he hears her jeer after him, apparently having found another victim for a dancing partner.

When he finally reaches the ancient gates leading down to the Pits, he finds them thrown wide open. Thin tendrils of pungent yellow smoke pour forth from the opening, and distorted echoes of excited murmurs and a high-pitched cackle reverberate along the narrow stairway. Clearly, others also have chosen to welcome their newest member into the brotherhood of Evil, though in all likelihood, their intent is less focused on rescue and more on entertainment. Crowley hurls himself down the stairway, taking the stairs two or three at a time. Once, he catches a glimpse of movement far below him along the spiral staircase, but he doesn't encounter anyone else. Down here, the smell of brimstone is much stronger than on the upper floors. It's much hotter, too. Crowley's skin feels slick with sweat, though he knows from experience that his human body's heat controls are about to shut down. However, since he's an immortal being, this will merely prove exceedingly uncomfortable rather than fatal.

Finally, he steps out into a gigantic cavern stretching out into every direction. The yellow smoke emanating from the nearby pools of molten sulphur makes it impossible to estimate its size, but it has to be immense. The sulphuric stalagmites have had thousands of years to grow and would dwarf even the tallest of demons. If there are similarly sized stalactites hanging from the ceiling, they're too high up to make out. When he turns to look back the way he came, Crowley realizes that the staircase, too, was hewn into a particularly gigantic column.

There's no sign whatsoever of Aziraphale. The screams in Crowley's head have long since quietened to an insistent whisper, possibly drowned out by the noisome bubbling of the sulphurous pits all around. For a moment, he considers shouting the angel's name, but he abandons the idea before it fully forms in his head. In all likelihood, Aziraphale's in no shape to respond anyway, and shouting would only alert other demons to his presence.

The stagnant air feels suffocating, and the sulphurous fumes would be toxic to a human, but fortunately, Crowley doesn't actually _need_ to breathe. Rivulets of sweat run along his arms and back, and his soaked clothes stick to his body. Clearly, leather's the wrong choice of clothing material for this environment. Sighing, he takes a moment to envision more appropriate clothes, then snaps his fingers to replace his entire outfit with a replica of the tattered black tunic he'd worn when he'd first set foot on Earth. Of course, the Mesopotamian deserts had been comfortably cool compared to the depths of Hell, but still, this wider, breezy kind of garment _does_ make it easier to deal with even this oppressive heat.

As he refamiliarises himself with his old tunic, or one very much like it, memories of his first day on Earth flood into his mind. That had also been the first time he'd met Aziraphale... Crowley grits his teeth. As if he didn't already realize the urgency of the situation. But at least it's giving him an idea... This place may have changed a lot over the millennia, but a mixture of instinct and hazy memories tells him that when he himself Fell, all those thousands of years ago, it must have been somewhere... He turns in a slow circle, focused on dredging up those memories he'd purposefully buried aeons ago. Somewhere... Yes, somewhere over there! To the left of that rock formation that's shaped like a twisted pair of hands, rather more eroded now than it had been when Crowley had last laid eyes on it.

There's absolutely no logical reason why Aziraphale should end up in the same general area as Crowley had done, but Crowley's been around for long enough to know that, sometimes, things just happen anyway. Coincidence, maybe. If Aziraphale were here right now, he'd claim it was all part of God's 'Great Plan', and Crowley would scoff at the idea. But maybe the angel would have the right of it, after all. _Former angel._ Crowley's insides constrict at the thought. _This won't change anything._ He won't _let_ it change anything. He'll find Aziraphale, drag him out of here, and everything will be all right.

Crowley summons his wings from their ethereal plane and, after a few tentative flaps, sets out in direction of the place where, millennia ago, his own demonic existence began. Below him, the rocky floor gives way to a lakescape in shades of orange and yellow. Local differences in temperature and depth shift the sea of sulphur below him into different states of aggregation. At times, he's flying over crystalline islands made up of yellow spikes inside a sea of orange, and then again over lakes of molten sulphur amidst vast stretches of solid ground, all yellow dust and porous rock. The whole area is completely devoid of life. There are no bats nor birds, no fish, not even any buzzing flies. Only the pre-historic bubble of inorganic material. Occasionally, as he glides along, low enough to peer through the mist and steam, Crowley has to dodge temperamental bursts of sizzling liquid spewed forth by the bubbling sea beneath him.

~ * ~ * ~

After what seems like hours, Crowley finally spots, on the edge of his vision, something that seems out of place. Something alive. Completely covered in orange goo, there's no blob of colour to set the figure apart from the backdrop of sulphurous liquid. Eerily silent, the figure is bobbing up and down near the centre of one of the larger pools, and it's this erratic movement that catches Crowley's attention, that makes the figure stand out among the rhythm of waves and bubbles he has become accustomed to seeing. Despite his own experience, Crowley had expected the cavern to reverberate with Aziraphale's splashes and desperate cries for help. Somehow, the sullen silence feels worse.

He burns a burst of demonic energy into a sudden drop of temperature, causing a patch of lake to instantly freeze into a crystalline island. Once he's got firm ground under his feet, Crowley gratefully folds his exhausted wings and carefully edges forward, all the while focusing on extending the island to construct a bridge towards the drowning figure.

There's no indication whatsoever that the former angel has noticed his presence yet. Even when Crowley calls out to him, there's no reaction at all. This close, Crowley recognizes the angel's shape of the head, which finally confirms that it really _is_ Aziraphale. Only now does he realize that, throughout his search for Aziraphale, he's still held out hope that his fears would be proven wrong, that it would all turn out to be a misunderstanding, and he'd find another angel thrashing in the Pits. A wave of dizziness almost brings Crowley to his knees, partly out of relief over finally having found his friend, and partly... Well, isn't it Crowley's fault, after all? Aziraphale's only crime was befriending a demon. That, and doing the right thing. And in punishment, those bastards have kicked him out of Heaven.

The moment his makeshift bridge of sulphurous rock brings Aziraphale into arms' reach, Crowley lunges down, grabs him under the armpits, and drags him onto solid ground. Instantly, his hands and forearms erupt in pain, and Crowley grits his teeth, hissing to shut it out. After all, it's nothing compared to what Aziraphale must be going through.

As soon as he's back on safe land, Aziraphale collapses to the ground on all fours, coughing and gasping for breath. The former angel's covered in a thick layer of sulphurous goo. His matted hair is plastered to his head, and his wings are weighed down by the same orange mass. From time to time, some of the ooze drips to the ground and allows a brief glimpse at the underlying feathers that, mere hours ago, had been a pristine white but now, tainted, have been burnt midnight black. All that's left of his shirt and suit are tattered remains. Right now, Aziraphale's clearly in no state to worry about his decency, but Crowley knows that Aziraphale's likely to be upset about this later, so he miracles up a blanket and drapes it over Aziraphale's back and shoulders. Not the fluffy, cream-coloured one Aziraphale would have no doubt preferred, but the coarse, black variety because that's all he can manage.

Then he crouches next to Aziraphale, leaning down to bring himself to eye level, even though Aziraphale's keeping his eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Um, hey, Aziraphale! It's me. You're safe now.”

Aziraphale just continues gasping and whimpering, apparently beyond the reach of words. Unsure how to proceed, Crowley kneels next to his friend and awkwardly places a hand on his back. This, at last, elicits a reaction, though not one Crowley had anticipated. With a shuddering sob, Aziraphale whirls around and presses his forehead into Crowley's shoulder, his fists twisted into Crowley's tunic. Crowley stiffens and instinctively yanks back his hands. How the Hell is he supposed to react to that?

Finally, after drawing a shaky breath of his own, he cautiously wraps an arm around Aziraphale's shoulders and holds him close, while using his free hand to tug the blanket into place. The force of Aziraphale's shivers makes even Crowley tremble along. Crowley closes his eyes and tightens his hold. “I'm right here, angel. It's okay. You're safe.”

This is by far the closest they've ever been. They've never come close to sharing a hug before. In the beginning, it had been all too natural to keep a wary distance, and for some reason they've kept this up even after their initial mutual distrust gave way to respect and, eventually, friendship. Maybe for reasons of plausible deniability, in case anyone was watching? In any case, Crowley only needs a single hand to count the number of times they had as much as shaken hands, a grand total of five times in six thousand years. Overall, that's a whole lot of not touching, but exceptional circumstances require exceptional responses, and what Aziraphale needs right now is physical contact. And now that he's over his initial shock, it's not nearly as awkward as Crowley would have imagined, either. In fact, it feels rather nice.

Aziraphale clings to him with a desperation that makes Crowley's heart ache. Coughing and choking, the former angel struggles to draw breath. His stomach gurgles ominously, and from deep in his throat he produces a series of whimpers and groans. Crowley places his own cheek on top of Aziraphale's head and rubs comforting circles onto Aziraphale's back, murmuring, “You're safe, angel. It's over. I'm right here with you.”

Another high-pitched whimper is all the warning Crowley gets before Aziraphale leans to the side and expels a string of sulphurous vomit. As close as they are, it's unavoidable that part of it sprays onto Crowley's tunic and skin, but since his sense of smell has shut down ages ago under the onslaught of the sulphuric stench, Crowley contends himself with using another miracle to clean up the mess. He's not going to let go of Aziraphale over something as minor as this. As another wave of retching racks Aziraphale's body, Crowley continues rubbing his back, and, once again, repeats the same assurances his friend needs to hear. “I've got you, angel. Everything's going to be all right.”

After several more rounds of coughing and spitting, Aziraphale's retching finally lets up, allowing him to draw great shuddering breaths. Still trembling, he buries himself back into Crowley's embrace. Slowly, his gasps give way to dry sobs. Tears are another thing that Hell burns right out of you. Personally, Crowley's never missed them, but it seems wrong to deprive Aziraphale of his ability to cry.

When he places his own hand over one of Aziraphale's tightly clenched fists, he immediately notices that something is off. Physical contact may have been rare in the past, but as soon as his fingertips touch the webbing that has sprouted between Aziraphale's fingers, he recognizes it as the demonic mark it is. Crowley sighs. He'd hoped that he'd been quick enough to forestall the demonic transformation. Then again, it could have been worse. Aziraphale may have to wear gloves from now on, but he'll still be able to resume his previous life on Earth. Heck, if he decides to wear those dorky fingerless gloves, they might even add to Aziraphale's Earthly persona of eccentric bookshop owner.

After a moment of hesitation, Crowley gives Aziraphale's hand a reassuring squeeze, then lets go to run his fingers across Aziraphale's scalp instead, all the while repeating his soothing mantra. Aziraphale sighs and, slowly, his trembling begins to let up. To Crowley's relief, his questing fingers encounter no horns, boils, or other unsightly appendages. But when he combs the goo out of Aziraphale's hair, instead of the blond locks he'd expected to see, silvery white peeks through under the sulphurous mess. Like in old ghost stories, all colour has been leached from Aziraphale's hair. Given the trauma of an angel's Fall, the comparison certainly seems apt.

At long last, Aziraphale unclenches his fists and lets go of Crowley's now rather stretched tunic, which prompts Crowley to also release his hold on the former angel, and raises his face to look at Crowley. He's managed to inadvertently smear most of the sulphurous goo onto Crowley's tunic, which gives Crowley the opportunity to critically examine Aziraphale's face. Except for the change of hair colour and the splotches of yellow still stuck to his face, Aziraphale looks much as Crowley remembers him. His eyes might be a shade paler than they used to be, but that could also be a trick of the light, and most importantly, their _shape_ is still human. Crowley exhales in relief. The person looking back at him, if not exactly the same angel, clearly has retained most of his soul.

Aziraphale returns Crowley's gaze with an inquisitive stare of his own. When Crowley scoots aside, the former angel settles on his haunches beside Crowley and begins studying him intently. From time to time, his eyes dart around the cavern instead, but they keep returning to settle on Crowley's face.

His insistent stare is beginning to creep Crowley out, so he gives his friend a nervous smile. “Are you okay?” It's an inane question, considering the situation, but Crowley feels incapable of putting his growing unease into words.

Aziraphale blinks rapidly a few times and then opens his mouth, only to immediately shut it again. Then he bites his lips and slowly shakes his head.

Crowley's heart is hammering painfully against his ribcage. He swallows. _What's wrong?_

But before he can ask, Aziraphale answers with a question of his own, one that brings Crowley's whirring mind to a grinding halt. “Um... who _are_ you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had initially planned to post this story chapter by chapter to get some reactions in the comments. But then I decided that would be too cruel. However, I would still appreciate some feedback. :)


	2. Suddenly Strangers

Despite their current location, in the very centre of Hell, a ball of ice forms in the pit of Crowley's stomach. The chill quickly spreads through the rest of his body, and he absentmindedly kneads some warmth back into his numb fingertips.

“You...” His voice breaks, forcing him to start over. “You don't remember me?”

Aziraphale mutely shakes his head.

“At all?” It's stupid, really, to hope for a different answer, but Crowley can't bring himself _not_ to ask again.

“No.” Aziraphale frowns. “Should I?”

 _Well, yes!_ Crowley grits his teeth in an effort not to lash out at his former... his friend. Why the Hell is Aziraphale acting like this? Yes, he's Fallen, and that must have been traumatic, but... _Oh. Of course!_ Crowley mentally kicks himself. He really should have seen this coming.

Way back, after his own Fall from Heaven, he also hadn't been able to remember anything about his angelic life. But that had been so long ago that he'd _forgotten_ that he'd forgotten. It's taken him years to piece together even what had earned him his Fall. And even now, most of the rest is still blurry. While he doesn't actually think he's missing anything important, of course he has no way of knowing for sure.

He remembers hanging out with Baal, Mephisto, and the others, complaining about Heaven's inane rules and bemoaning the strict code of conduct angels were expected to follow. Of course, they'd all had different names back then; that was another part of their identities they'd lost with their Fall. The one exception had been Lucifer, the ring leader of their little gang of rebellious angels, who had managed to hold on to most of his memories, possibly because he'd been an Archangel when he Fell. Lost and disoriented as they had been, they had once again banded around him, and it hadn't taken long for Lucifer to establish himself as the leader of a new demonic hierarchy, now styling himself Satan, Lord of Darkness.

Crowley certainly had _associated_ with the other demons, even back in Heaven, but he doesn't remember ever having been _friends_. If there had been any pre-existing friendships among any of the demons, none of them had survived their Fall. For the first time ever, he finds himself wondering if this might have been intentional; if destroying any former ties of companionship might have been the Archangels' ultimate weapon against their Fallen brethren. It would be yet another grudge against Heaven to add to his pile.

He forces himself to take a deep breath. There's no reason to take any of this out on Aziraphale. It's not his fault, after all. “I...” His voice rises to an uncomfortable pitch. He clears his throat. “I'm Crowley. I'm a demon.” In vain, he waits for a flicker of recognition in Aziraphale's eyes. He swallows. “We've been friends for six thousand years.”

Aziraphale bites his lips. “I'm sorry. We must have been very close.”

“We're best friends.” Crowley refuses to use the past tense. Aziraphale might need to be reminded, but damn it, they're _still_ best friends. “Um. Do you remember who _you_ are?”

Apart from blinking rapidly, Aziraphale goes completely still. Then his eyes widen, his breathing speeds up, and a look of horror dawns on his face.

Crowley quickly speaks up to forestall Aziraphale's rising panic. “Your name's Aziraphale. And it's completely normal for you to be a bit confused after your Fall. You're an angel, see?” He grimaces. “Well, _were_ an angel.”

Aziraphale nods with a grimace of his own. “I remember Falling...”

“And before that?”

Aziraphale furrows his brows. While thinking, he moves into a more comfortable, cross-legged sitting position and rewraps the blanket around himself. Then he props an elbow on a knee and leans his chin into his hand. “Uh, I remember Heaven. I think. A light, open space. Lots of solemn-looking people wearing white.”

“Sounds like Heaven, all right.” Crowley nods encouragingly. “That, or a hospital.”

“What's a -?”

“Hospital? Something the humans invented.” Following Aziraphale's example, Crowley also shifts into a sitting position. “Actually, do you remember the humans?”

Again, Aziraphale appears deep in thought. Then his eyes light up, and his face breaks into a wide smile. “Yes! Yes, I do. There's two of them. They're both very nice.”

He's so excited about his sudden breakthrough that, despite the severity of the situation, Crowley can't quite contain a snort of laughter. In response to Aziraphale's questioning glance, he explains. “Sorry. It's just... I'm afraid there's rather more of them than that. About six or seven billion, I think. It's hard to keep track.”

Aziraphale's mouth drops open. “Is that a joke?”

“You've missed about six thousand years. A lot can happen in six thousand years.”

“But _six billion_? Seriously?”

Crowley quirks a smile. “'Be fruitful and multiply.' They've interpreted that quite literally.”

“I don't think there are that many angels in Heaven.”

“Nor demons in Hell.”

Aziraphale regards him thoughtfully. “Were you an angel, too?”

Crowley can't quite contain a flinch. “Well, yes. A long time ago.”

“Should I remember you from Heaven?”

“Er, no. We first met on Earth, a bit more than six thousand years ago. That was shortly after Adam and Eve got kicked out from Eden.”

Aziraphale gapes. “Kicked out? Why?”

There's no way Crowley's going to admit his own serpentine role in the whole affair. In all likelihood, Aziraphale would take it the wrong way and decide that Crowley's not to be trusted, just as he'd done when they'd first met. So instead, Crowley just shrugs casually. “Long story. Anyway, you didn't expect all six billion of them to fit into one tiny garden, did you?”

“It could have grown to encompass all of them,” the former angel mutters. He still seems puzzled. “But She _loved_ Her creations. What could they have possibly done to deserve this?”

Crowley casts him a sidelong glance. “What could an angel have done to deserve Falling?”

It was supposed to be a rhetorical question, but Aziraphale replies promptly anyway. “I must have done something truly damnable.”

“Do you really believe that?” Crowley gestures at the sulphurous landscape around them. “After all this, do you still believe you deserved _that_?”

Aziraphale looks at him with that wide trusting gaze Crowley had thought he'd never see again. “Well, yes. The Almighty could never be mistaken.”

Previously, this display of unquestioning loyalty would have set Crowley's teeth on edge, but here and now, a wave of relief crashes over him. Could it be that underneath his new demonic appearance, Aziraphale's still the same person?

Suddenly, a shout rings out from somewhere to the east, the direction that Crowley had come. The words are distorted by the echo, but Crowley would bet his Bentley that they're something along the lines of, “There he is.” He cranes his neck to check, and, sure enough, two winged silhouettes are visible through the fog, still small, but rapidly growing larger. He swears.

Aziraphale has also turned his head. “Who's that?”

Crowley's lips curl in disgust. “Your welcoming committee, I guess.”

“I thought that was you.”

“No, I was the unauthorized rescue party.”

Aziraphale's brow knits in confusion. “What do you mean, unauthorized?”

“It's... There's no time to explain.”

“I suppose I should thank you for helping me.”

Crowley waves a dismissive hand. “You'd have done the same for me.”

“Really?”

In truth, Crowley's not entirely sure, either. Over the last couple of centuries, he's had to disentangle Aziraphale from a number of dangerous situations, but never the other way around. However, that's largely due to Aziraphale's trusting nature making him an easy target for ill-intentioned people, whereas Crowley has always been better at keeping himself out of trouble. And the one time Crowley _had_ concocted a harebrained scheme that, as Aziraphale had rightly pointed out, could easily have gotten him killed, Aziraphale _had_ stepped in, against his own moral reservations, before Crowley could put his plan into action. So yes, Crowley likes to think that, given the chance, Aziraphale _would_ have done the same for him. He finally answers Aziraphale's question with a decisive nod.

“Well, thank you anyway. But I still don't understand. I mean, why are they here if not to rescue me?”

Crowley jerks his head at the rapidly approaching demons. “They're just here to gloat.” He jumps up and holds out his hand. “Come on, we'd better leave before they get here. I hope you remember how to fly because I think I ran out of miracles for today.”

Aziraphale glances up at him with furrowed brows. “Why should we leave? That would be dreadfully impolite. Shouldn't we at least wait to say hello?”

Crowley feels a strong urge to shake some sense into his friend, but ultimately contends himself with just rolling his eyes. “I told you. They don't care one whit about you. As a new demon, you're just an interesting diversion to them.”

“I don't believe that.”

“You'd better believe it. We're demons. We're not a friendly bunch.”

“ _You_ seem friendly enough.”

“That's because we're _friends_.” The sentence ends in an inadvertent hiss that causes Aziraphale's eyes to pop open in alarm. Crowley clears his throat. “My point is, they're going to eat you alive.” In response to Aziraphale's raised eyebrows, Crowley sighs. “Not literally, I guess.”

As the other demons approach, Crowley recognizes them as Dagon and Belphegor, both the sort of pencil pushers he despises. They're quite different in temperament, so it's rather surprising to see them together. Apparently, the prospect of witnessing a Fallen angel was enticing enough for them to momentarily overcome their differences.

Aziraphale gracefully gets to his feet. “I'm no longer an angel. I don't have anything to fear.” His calm confidence is infuriating. After all, he has no idea what he's getting into.

“Why do you have to be so bloody stubborn?” Crowley snarls. “Didn't your Fall knock some sense into you?” He regrets his outburst immediately. Aziraphale's now squinting at him with the kind of suspicion that Crowley hasn't seen in centuries, at least not directed at him. “Wait, I didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry, okay?” Even while he says it, he can already tell that this meagre attempt to back-pedal won't be nearly enough to reassure his friend. And the other demons are too close; there's not enough time to explain. _Fuck._

His chin raised, and deliberately turning his back on Crowley, Aziraphale stretches out a hand in greeting to the newcomers.

Belphegor lands first. Up close, it's impossible to miss the maggots crawling all over his festering chest. Fortunately, the surrounding smell of sulphur has clogged up Crowley's nose, so at least he's spared the stench of decay that usually surrounds the other demon. Aziraphale's smile falters, and instead of the handshake he clearly had planned, he raises his hand and awkwardly flutters his fingers. Belphegor sneers at them. “What's this supposed to be?” His hand moves in a swirling gesture that encompasses all of Crowley, Aziraphale, and the sulphuric island on which they're standing. The movement hurls a few maggots into the sulphurous liquid around them.

Crowley had hoped to be out of here with Aziraphale before anyone even realized who the Fallen angel had been. He's already in hot water with the other demons, their truce much too fragile to add further complications. All this in mind, he raises his hands placatingly. “Wasn't me, I swear. When I got here, he'd already managed to climb out all by himself.” It's hard to contain an impertinent grin. “Isn't that amazing?” _Unbelievable, really._

Aziraphale's head whips around. When he opens his mouth to protest, Crowley gives a minute shake of the head while raising his eyebrows in, he hopes, a significant manner. Aziraphale frowns, but ends up closing his mouth again without contradicting Crowley's statement.

Dagon bares her sharpened silver teeth. “Don't think you're fooling anyone, Crowley.” Then she turns towards Aziraphale and, most worryingly, stretches her scaly features into a sweet smile. “Welcome to Hell. We're not nearly as bad as you've probably heard. Whatever _he_ told you -” She jerks her head at Crowley. “It was probably a lie. Known liar, that one.”

Aziraphale doubtfully glances at Crowley, but then returns her smile. For one brief moment, one corner of her mouth lifts in triumph. Crowley seethes. The problem is that he's brought this on himself. There's nothing he can say to convince Aziraphale that _she_ 's the one putting on an act right now. After all, he's just told a very obvious, shameless lie, and protesting her statement would only make it worse.

Catching on, Belphegor raises his arm in clear intent to wrap it around Aziraphale's shoulders. Aziraphale flinches back, his nose wrinkled in an expression of utter revulsion. Clearly, he has no interest in being that close to Belphegor's ever-present maggots. The other demon takes a step back. “Ah. Ahahaha.” He clears his throat. “Let's get you settled in somewhere more comfortable. Do you think you can fly?” He snaps his fingers, causing large chunks of crystallized sulphur to drop out of Aziraphale's wings.

Aziraphale winces at the none too gentle treatment, but he obediently shrugs off Crowley's blanket and gives his wings an experimental flap that causes more yellow dust to trickle to the ground. A few dark feathers drift gently downwards, only to be lifted up again by the heated air and float away.

Crowley stares at the blanket pooled on the ground. All of a sudden, he finds it very hard to breathe, and this time, it's neither the heat nor toxic air that's causing it. Tearing his gaze away, he manages to rally some fighting spirit. “Aziraphale!”

When Aziraphale half-turns to look at him, most of him is blocked from view by his unfolded wings. But he _does_ react to his name, and Crowley's heart skips a beat. Then he realizes that he's already told Aziraphale his name and that, consequently, this doesn't mean anything. He swallows. “If... If they tell you that you need to _hurt_ someone, it's not true.” This seems like the most important advice right now. He may be losing Aziraphale's friendship, but he can't let them corrupt his soul.

Aziraphale's eyebrows knit together. Crowley returns his stare, and finally, Aziraphale tightens his lips and gives the smallest of nods. Then he turns around again to follow Belphegor, who proceeds to instruct him in the basics of flying.

Before Crowley can make up his mind about whether he should follow or not, Dagon digs a painful claw into his shoulder. “What the Hell was all that about?” she hisses.

There's no point in lying. After all, both Heaven and Hell already know. “He's my friend.”

A sneer spreads across her scaly face. “Not anymore.”

“He _is_. He _will_ be.” Crowley had planned to make it sound confident, but the statement rings hollow even in his own ears.

Dagon's smirk widens. “We'll see about that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I would appreciate any feedback. :) 
> 
> Do you think Aziraphale will get his memory back? Will their friendship recover?


	3. The Archive

Rock music blares from the Bentley's old radio and out through the opened windows. This is guaranteed to tick off the residents trying to sleep, just as the howl of the engine and the squealing wheels. Under normal circumstances, any of those would be enough to cheer Crowley up. By now, he would be belting out the lyrics and aim to trigger as many speed traps as possible, all of which would miraculously cease to function. But these aren't normal circumstances, not by any means.

A supermarket - a parking lot - a bus stop whiz by. His honking gives a late-night pedestrian just enough time to jump back onto the pavement before the Bentley races by. Shaking her fist, she yells something that Crowley's already too far away to hear. Yet without Aziraphale in the passenger seat to berate him for his reckless driving, all this is simply not the same.

Is it selfish of him to want Aziraphale to remain unchanged by his demonic transformation? For things to return to exactly how they used to be? Well, yes, probably, but he _is_ a demon, after all. Selfishness is just part of the package. Another question is far more important. Harder to answer, too. Could Crowley's insistence on their friendship _harm_ Aziraphale?

The wail of a siren jolts him out of his thoughts. A quick glance into the rear view mirror reveals a whirring blue light quickly approaching. Snarling, Crowley snaps his fingers and accelerates even further. Somewhere behind him, there's a sound like a gunshot, followed by a squeal and the crunch of metal. A blown tire tends to have that effect. This finally puts a smirk onto Crowley's face. And yet, even without an angel's restraining presence by his side, he knows without checking that the crash, while totalling the cops' car, has left its occupants miraculously unharmed. Maybe he's going soft, but it wouldn't be fun otherwise.

As the sound of the siren, now distorted and choppy, fades into the distance, Crowley's thoughts resume their pointless orbit around the sudden gap in his life. On the one hand, being associated with Crowley will make it harder for Aziraphale to find his place in the demonic hierarchy, if that's what he wants. That could be a reason for Crowley to stay away from him, at least to begin with: to give him time to settle in. On the other hand, the more time Aziraphale spends under Hellish influence, the harder it will be for Crowley to get through to him later. And how much of a chance does Aziraphale really have to 'make it' in Hell? Crowley has only had one short conversation with him, but that has been enough to prove that, his amnesia notwithstanding, Aziraphale's still holding on to his prior values. No doubt they'll try moulding his soul into a more demonic shape, and in the end they might even succeed, but the process will be long and painful for Aziraphale. Crowley grits his teeth. No, he can't give up yet. If nothing else, he owes it to his friend.

~ * ~ * ~

A few days later, Crowley finds himself in what they call 'the Archive', eyeing the concrete walls with distaste. Any basement on Earth would be more comfortable than this one. It's hard to imagine Aziraphale, previously so fond of knick-knacks and plushy armchairs, living here now, but that's what word of mouth has claimed. It's taken Crowley a while to get the answer he needed, but he finally found someone who didn't recognize him and who told him that 'the new guy' had been assigned to the Archive. That actually makes a lot of sense. After all, it would allow Dagon, self-styled 'Lord of the Files', to keep an eye on Aziraphale, while keeping him firmly away from Earth.

Today might be his best chance to talk to Aziraphale. Dagon's away, overseeing some kind of meeting, and the rest of the demons down here are more likely to be poring over ancient documents than to notice any intruder. Still, to be safe, Crowley has nicked a pile of grimy folders from an unguarded filing cabinet to show to anyone who might ask. But none of the demons he encounters in the dimly lit corridor even give him a second glance.

He's beginning to wonder whether Dagon might have taken Aziraphale along to the meeting, unlikely as it seems, when he finally discovers him in a dingy office. With its bare walls, complete lack of windows, and only a flickering overhead light, it would be more appropriate to describe it as a cell, if it weren't for the fact that, like all the offices here, it's lacking a door. Hell has fully embraced the open door policy, which not only makes it easier for noise and smells to permeate across the entire floor and distract everybody equally, but also allows senior management to keep a close eye on its workforce.

Aziraphale's sitting hunched over at a sturdy wooden desk piled high with documents, earnestly poring over a dusty folder and occasionally taking notes. He's wearing some sort of high-collared black tunic that makes him look like a vicar. The sight makes Crowley shake his head. It's going to take him a while to get used to seeing the former angel dressed in black.

Crowley raps his knuckles against a rusty shelf by the entrance. “Hey.”

When Aziraphale catches sight of Crowley, his nostrils flare. “Oh. It's _you_. What do you want?”

Though Crowley had thought himself prepared for further distrust, this unprecedented hostility makes him flinch back, which he tries to cover up by leaning casually against the wall. At least, he _hopes_ it looks casual. “Um, I came by to check on you. How are you doing?”

Glaring at Crowley, Aziraphale lifts himself out of his chair, an action that causes a number of documents to slide to the floor. “Do you know what these are?” He jerks his head at the piles of folders next to and, Crowley now realizes, everywhere around him.

Crowley has no idea what he's talking about, but the complete non-sequitur is giving him a distinctly bad feeling. “Um, well... No?”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “No? You should. You wrote them, after all.”

The realization drops like a ton of lead. Aziraphale must have been reading Crowley's progress reports on causing trouble on Earth. His heavily embellished reports. _Fuck._ Avoiding Aziraphale's stare, he rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, I'm sorry I'm causing you extra work. Unfortunately, if you were hoping for overtime benefits, that's not -”

“Wars. Massacres. Unlawful executions.” In his agitation, Aziraphale all but hisses the final sibilants, a sound that Crowley would never have expected to hear from the angel. “You must have caused thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of innocent humans to die.”

The judgement in Aziraphale's eyes proves too much. Without even thinking about it, Crowley blurts out, “It's all false!”

Aziraphale's eyes narrow. “Oh, is it? Did someone else write these? Under your name?” Disbelief colours his voice.

“No, that was me, all right. It just-” Crowley grimaces. “They're not true. I made most of it up.” He's not entirely sure he can trust this brainwashed version of Aziraphale with this particular secret, and indeed, the admission might cost him later, but he simply can't let Aziraphale believe that he actually did all the things he'd been bragging about in his reports.

Aziraphale's eyebrows shoot up, he blinks, then his lids tighten again. “Do you seriously expect me to believe that? That Hell wouldn't notice all these...” He gesticulates in agitation. “These _wars_ that never happened?”

Crowley swallows. “Oh, they happened. But they happened without my help. Honestly, I didn't have to do anything. Humans are good at coming up with reasons to kill each other. All I had to do was report about it and take the credit.” He returns Aziraphale's suspicious stare with wide open eyes, willing his former friend to recognize that he's telling the truth. “Please. It's not nearly as absurd as it sounds. After all, you practically did the same thing in your reports to Heaven. Sometimes you even got praise for the exact same event.”

“That doesn't make any sense.”

“It does, for some kinds of events. I'd take the credit for causing civil unrest with half a dozen casualties, and you'd report the same as a 'courageous uprising in the name of freedom and equality'.” On second thought, Crowley might have to dial down his sarcasm. The air quotes probably were a bit much. “Okay, so maybe you were more subtle about it. But you didn't protest either when they came to the obvious conclusion that you wouldn't report it if you hadn't played a part.”

Aziraphale still looks doubtful.

Crowley releases a tired sigh. “Look. Has it occurred to you to ask yourself why they're making you read specifically _these_ files?”

Biting his lips, Aziraphale glances at the piles of documents around him, all of which appear to share the same subject matter. “Er, yes, actually. I mean, I _was_ wondering.”

“And?”

“Um. What did you do to make them _hate_ you like that?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Besides the obvious?”

“Well, yes. I mean, all of this...” Aziraphale brandishes a faded brown folder. “We're in Hell here. Shouldn't they be pleased with all your evil work?”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “They were. That's exactly why I exaggerated my role in human conflicts. But that's not what I meant. Obviously, they didn't appreciate my getting friendly with an _angel_. Rescuing you was just the latest in a long line of transgressions.”

Aziraphale guiltily gnaws at his lower lip. “You mentioned that before. You said my rescue was 'unauthorized'. What did you mean by that?”

Glad to be back on safer ground, Crowley breathes out slowly. “We don't get much entertainment down here. So on the rare occasion that an angel Falls, about once in a thousand years, many demons like to come and watch them struggle in the Pits. It's a party that can last weeks, sometimes months.” Aziraphale's mouth opens in horror. “And I cut that short.”

A muscle in Aziraphale's face twitches. “And I _am_ grateful for that. But... it's just... it's all so complicated.”

“Yeah, I know. It takes a while to get used to all this.”

“Is that why you lied about rescuing me?”

Crowley pulls a face. “Don't remind me. That was stupid of me, but yes, that's why.” He sighs. “Such an obvious lie, too. I mean, anyone with two brain cells to rub together would have realized instantly that you must have had help.”

“Why did you do it, then? Habit?”

“No. Well, maybe. But not for the reason you think. I tried to keep them off my... our backs. I knew it was unlikely to work, but I...” Crowley slumps back against the wall and tugs at his hair. “I don't know. Like I said, it was stupid.”

A lazy drawl interrupts their conversation. “Look what the Hellhound's dragged in...” When Crowley's head snaps around, Dagon's glaring at him with her fists dug into her hips. “Who invited _you_ down here?” Her glance flickers past him in Aziraphale's direction.

 _If only._ But no, he's not even welcome here. “Nobody did. I invited myself.” Crowley jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “To visit an old _friend_.” It takes all his self control not to look around for Aziraphale's reaction.

“Yeah, 'friend'.” Dagon's lips curl into a sneer. “Distracting a fellow demon from work sounds more likely.” Eyes flashing, she glares over Crowley's shoulder. “Get back to work, Azazel!”

When Crowley turns to look at Aziraphale, the former angel's already in the process of clearing files off his seat with a contrite look on his face. So they didn't waste any time in picking a new, more demonic name for him, then. Crowley gives it a twirl in his mind, trying to imagine what it tastes like when it rolls off his tongue. _Azazel._ It's so close to the original that it almost makes him wonder why they even bothered at all. But even so, it's yet another change that cements Aziraphale's transformation even further. His nostrils flare of their own volition.

Dagon stretches her features into her razor-sharp grin. “How do you like his first assignment?”

There's no way Crowley's going to give them the satisfaction of knowing they got to him. Instead, he responds with a smirk of his own. “I'm _flattered_. What better teacher could there be than a professional trickster?”

His eyes flicker to Aziraphale, who, while ostensibly focused on the folder in front of him, is still watching them out of the corner of his eyes. Crowley knows he's taking a gamble, but the Aziraphale he remembers would have been able to deduce his deeper meaning: that _anyone_ could trick a newborn demon, but only a true master could lie to the collective forces of Hell and get away with it, not once, but over a period of six thousand years. He can only hope that's still true.

“Oh well, gotta go.” He roughly elbows past Dagon, then, almost as an afterthought, shoves his folder of alibi documents into her arms. Without turning around, he lazily waves over his shoulder. “See you around, an-” He swallows the outdated moniker and smoothly continues, “Aziraphale.” Let them make of that what they will. He's not going to use the new name until Aziraphale asks him to.

~ * ~ * ~

It's almost a week until Crowley manages to catch Aziraphale by himself again. By sheer chance, they happen to run into each other while he's on his way down to the Archive. This time, Aziraphale's wearing a combination of black vest and sweater, a style that he's doubtlessly copied from his co-workers, and laden with a bunch of official-looking documents.

When he notices him, Aziraphale pauses on the stairs. “Crowley.” The tone's not exactly friendly, but it _is_ a greeting and thus a definite improvement.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley nods in greeting.

“Actually, it's _Azazel_ now.”

“So I've heard.” _Unfortunately._ Crowley cocks his head. “Do you like that one better?”

Aziraphale furrows his brow. “What's that got to do with anything?”

“Other than the rest of us, you _do_ know your old name. Which means you've got a choice.”

“A choice?”

Crowley shrugs. “Sure. Falling's kinda terrible, but it does allow you to reinvent yourself if that's what you want. Or you could keep both if you prefer. That's what Lucifer did, although he mostly goes by Satan now.”

In fact, Lucifer might also remember the other demons' old names, at least of the original gang, but if so, he's never bothered to share that information with any of them. And it never seemed like a question over which it would be worth risking Satan's displeasure.

Aziraphale stays silent for a while, mulling this over. Finally he shakes his head. “I don't know. It's not like I remember a lot about my previous life.”

“You remember your life before you came to Earth.” _Which is more than I did_ , Crowley reflects with a certain amount of envy.

“I...” Aziraphale chews his bottom lip. “I'll think about it.”

Crowley gives another shrug. As far as he's concerned, until Aziraphale makes up his mind, he's free to call him whatever he wants. They both fall quiet as a bespectacled demon carrying a crate of office supplies hurries past them. Once she's out of earshot, Crowley speaks up again. “What are you doing up here? I'm surprised they let you out of your cubicle.”

Aziraphale glances down at the stack of papers he's holding in his arms as if he'd forgotten about them. “They sent me up to make copies. The copy machine broke down again.”

Ah, yes. The photocopiers. One of the few technological inventions Hell has decided to adopt that's not an instrument of torture. Of course, the machines run entirely on demonic energy down here and, furthermore, haven't been upgraded since the 1960s. No wonder they break down all the time.

Crowley eyes Aziraphale's documents, trying to recognize the handwriting. “Are those mine, too?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “The world doesn't revolve around you, Crowley.”

“Oh. Does that mean you've moved on to more interesting topics?”

“No.” Aziraphale sets his jaw. “And for what it's worth, I don't believe you. About making it all up.”

“But... but I did.” Crowley attempts a winsome smile. “Or at least claimed responsibility for things I didn't do.”

“And that's true for all of it?”

“Well, no.” Crowley tugs at his collar. “Just the... the big things. Wars and such. Those seemed to worry you the most.”

“I see. What about the rest?”

Crowley waves an airy hand. “You mean tempting people into theft, bribery, adultery? Yeah, I did those. But it's not like the humans are completely innocent. They do have free will, you know.”

Aziraphale peers at him through narrowed eyes. “I'll admit you can be pretty convincing when you want to, but I'm not going to let myself be taken in that easily.”

Crowley sighs. “I only want my friend back.”

“So you keep saying. And yet the others describe you as a scheming liar who's only interested in his personal gain.”

“This is Hell, an-” Crowley closes his eyes. “This is Hell. Everybody down here lies all the time.”

Aziraphale's brow furrows. “That's a paradox.”

“Come again?”

“You're saying that all demons are habitual liars. But you're a demon, too, which means -”

“It means that, obviously, I was using a hyperbole. They... we _do_ tell the truth when it suits us.”

“Does it suit you _now_?”

“I've never lied to you. Not where it matters.”

Aziraphale pins his gaze on him. “All right, then. What's the most evil thing you've ever done?”

“What?”

“You heard me. What was your most evil deed, ever?”

Crowley scratches his chin. Most of the truly despicable things he's done had been on direct orders from Below, although he's not sure Aziraphale would appreciate the distinction. Not now that he no longer remembers his own struggles with some of Heaven's decisions. And some of Crowley's demonic activity simply had more far-reaching, more devastating results than he'd had intended. Surely, intention has to account for something, but again, he's not sure whether Aziraphale would agree. One act of evil springs to mind, though.

He takes a deep breath. “Um, remember that first couple of humans you mentioned? The ones you were so fond of?”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes. “What about them?”

“They were exiled from Eden because of me.”

Aziraphale's eyes flash. “That's it. I've heard enough.” And without further ado, he turns and begins to climb the next flight of stairs.

Crowley hurries after him. “Aziraphale, wait! You asked me a question. Won't you at least listen to my response?”

The reply comes floating down the stairs without Aziraphale even bothering to turn around. “Either you're lying now or you lied when we last discussed this.”

“I didn't, honestly. I merely changed the topic, which is hardly the same as lying, because I _expected_ you to take it badly.” _And you're sort of proving me right._ “But I'm being truthful now. Doesn't that count for anything?” The idea of having to plead makes Crowley feel queasy all over, but he can't just leave this unexplained. “Aziraphale.” He closes his eyes. “Azazel, _please_.”

Finally pausing in his steps, Aziraphale glances over his shoulder.

Crowley swallows. “Just, please, hear me out.”

Clutching his documents like a shield, Aziraphale leans against the wall. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “All right, spill. What did you do?”

“I talked the woman, Eve, into trying one of the fruits from the Tree of Knowledge, and then she shared it with her husband. You know, the ones they'd been strictly _forbidden_ to eat?”

“I remember. And?”

“Well, they _did._ The Almighty was furious and kicked them out. That's what started it all. All the suffering that followed happened because of _me_.” Crowley drags his hand through his hair. “There. Are you happy now?”

Aziraphale furrows his brows. “The Almighty kicked them out because of something they ate?”

“Because they disobeyed Her orders, but... yes.”

“Still... that seems a bit extreme. Are you sure you aren't forgetting something?”

Crowley exhales in relief. “Yes. And that's exactly what I said, too. I mean, how was I supposed to know that would be the outcome? All I'd wanted was to stir up a bit of trouble.”

“Sounds like you were successful.” Aziraphale chews his lips, but falls silent when the door on the flight above them is flung violently open. Two stocky demons, loudly arguing about taxation systems, enter the stairwell. The door slams behind them, and then their voices fade away as they move upstairs.

After a while, Aziraphale picks up the thread of conversation. “There's one thing I don't understand. You said we met shortly after that...”

“We did.”

“But that means...” Aziraphale scratches the back of his neck. “It means you already were a _demon_ when we met.”

“Um.” Crowley clears his throat. “That's... yeah, that's correct.”

“Did I _know_ you were a demon?”

Crowley frowns. “Of course you did. Would have been hard to miss, what with my wings and eyes and everything.” _Especially the eyes._

Aziraphale holds his gaze without flinching. “And I didn't mind? Your being a demon, I mean.”

“Well... I never claimed we were friends from the start.”

“Yes, you did. You said we've been friends for six thousand years.”

 _Great. Now he remembers..._ “Feels like it,” Crowley mutters sullenly. Then he raises his voice. “Okay, so you _didn't_ trust me, if that's what you want to know. At least to begin with. But we kept running into each other.” _Or rather, I kept seeking you out._ Loneliness can be a strong incentive. “We talked a lot and, over time, we got to know each other. We started occasionally having drinks together around the time God's son was executed.”

 _Crash!_ The stack of documents has slipped from Aziraphale's grasp. A folder slides down past Crowley all the way to the next landing, and a few pages that have become loose glide through the air until they finally join the untidy heap the rest has formed at Aziraphale's feet.

Lifting his hands, Crowley hastily continues, “I swear I had nothing to do with that.” He grimaces. “Although you'll find I've claimed the opposite in my reports.”

Aziraphale still hasn't moved and is staring at him in horror. “The Almighty had a _son_? And he was _executed_? By whom?”

Crowley shrugs. “Some of the humans.”

“Oh.” Apparently unable to think of anything else to say, Aziraphale crouches down and begins gathering his fallen papers. Crowley watches him in silence for a while, before he decides to help out and descend the stairs to retrieve the stray folder.

Eventually, Aziraphale breaks the silence. “Whatever for?”

Folder in hand, Crowley straightens back up. “I guess they didn't like his teachings. Everything turned out fine, though.”

“Fine? You said he was _killed_!”

Crowley turns to grin at Aziraphale. “He was. But he recovered anyway. Some of his followers saw him come back to life, and as you can imagine, that started a major religion. Turns out, it was all part of a Greater Plan. Apparently, he was _supposed_ to die to absolve humanity of their ancestors' sins, going all the back to Adam and Eve when they...” Crowley blinks. He's never thought about this before. His free hand clenches around the bannister. “Which means that...” The realisation is almost too awful to voice out loud, but he forces it out anyway. “God's son... _died..._ because of _me_...”

Aziraphale carefully places his collected stack of papers on the ground and descends the stairs to join Crowley. “Hey. Are you okay?” He lays a hand on Crowley's arm.

Reflexively, Crowley tightens his grip on the folder and bannister. His mouth feels dry, and there's something stuck in his throat.

Aziraphale gives Crowley's arm a slight squeeze. “For what it's worth, I don't think it's your fault.”

Crowley glares at him. “Easy for you to say. You don't remember any of it.”

“Well... whatever happened, you said it was all part of God's Great Plan,” Aziraphale argues logically. “I guess you _had_ to play your part, or it wouldn't have worked out.”

“You _really_ don't blame me?”

Smiling, Aziraphale shakes his head. He pats Crowley's arm once more and plucks the folder out of Crowley's unresisting hand. “Thanks for helping me out.”

Crowley swallows. “Um... Does this mean we're back to being friends?”

“Don't push your luck, Crowley. After all, I hardly know you.”

“But...” Crowley drags his hands through his hair. “What do I have to do to _fix_ this?”

Aziraphale's lips tighten into an apologetic smile. “I'm sorry, it's just... This whole idea of an angel being friends with a demon just seems so far-fetched to me. I mean, _you_ seem to believe it, but...”

“Why else would the others try so hard to turn you against me?”

“Maybe they're right about you. Maybe it's all an elaborate act.”

“And you trust _them_?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I don't trust anyone anymore.”

 _Fair enough._ “So you've learned already.” Crowley sighs. “Look, would you trust me if I could _prove_ we've been friends?”

“How could you possibly prove something like that?”

“I don't know.” _But I'm going to find a way. I have to._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like Crowley's reports backfired... Do you think Aziraphale (or Azazel) believed him? Will Crowley be able to prove that, despite everything, an angel and a demon could be friends?


	4. The Search

“ _Fuck._ ”

Another priceless sculpture shatters on the floor. What's the point of collecting all these souvenirs throughout human history if none of them can serve as proof for a friendship to last through the ages?

Crowley curses his habit, born out of justified paranoia, to immediately delete any voicemail message. While the humans' mobile network doesn't extend to Hell, he might have been able to convince Aziraphale to pay a brief visit to Earth for the chance to listen to his own voice delivering messages from the past. But no, by his own actions, Crowley's robbed himself of this option.

And of course they've never sent each other letters, or even postcards. Or gifts, for that matter, unless he counts the flask of holy water he'd begged off Aziraphale all those years ago. But that, too, is gone. Aziraphale even helped him dispose of the leftovers safely. Then again, bringing holy water into Hell would have been a terrible idea anyway, and might even qualify as an act of war.

Crowley sighs. He's not looking forward to visiting the bookshop, but it sure looks like that's the only reasonable option left.

~ * ~ * ~

It's been more than ten minutes already, and Crowley's still sitting in the driver's seat, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Why is it so damn hard to enter the shop? It's not like Aziraphale's going to come home and catch him in the act of breaking in.

Maybe it's because Crowley knows what caused Aziraphale's sudden flight, but although it's only been a few weeks, the shop already looks like it was abandoned years ago. Two crates of milk bottles are stacked outside the door, no doubt long gone sour. Leaves have blown all over the entryway, piled up against the door, and a recent rainstorm has left the windows spattered with dirt. And worst of all, someone has scribbled obscenities on one of the walls. Personally, Crowley doesn't mind, but it's so obviously something Aziraphale would never have allowed to happen, if he'd still been around.

Gathering his nerves, Crowley pinches his nose, takes a deep breath and, finally, exits the car. At a snap of his fingers, the shop's doors fly open, slamming into the crates and making the top one wobble precariously. With hurried steps, so he doesn't have time to second-guess himself, Crowley enters the shop and lets the door slam shut behind him before the leaves swirled up by the gust of wind even have had time to settle on the ground again.

He kicks aside a pile of letters, leaflets, and newspapers, and peers into the gloom. Absentmindedly, Crowley takes off his sunglasses and folds them into the front pocket of his leather jacket. Thanks to his reptilian eyes, he doesn't need to turn on any of the lights, but in here, the unaccustomed darkness feels oppressive all the same. And once the door bell has fallen quiet, the silence starts pressing in on him as well. Even the grandfather clock in the corner, not having been wound up recently, has fallen silent. As he moves through the shop, Crowley's shoes leave imprints in the thin layer of dust that has settled on the floor, as well as on the shelves and Aziraphale's counter.

The last time Crowley had entered the shop without Aziraphale being present, the entire building had been on fire. Expecting the worst, he'd shouted the angel's name, and when Aziraphale had been nowhere to be found, Crowley had believed him killed. Of course, that hadn't been true, and when, a few hours later, Armageddon was halted and Earth got reset, even the fire had never happened. But the memory still feels very real. And now, with Aziraphale, once again, gone, the shop feels like a tomb. As if its owner had died.

Crowley shakes his head. He's on a mission here; he can't afford to be distracted by events that never happened. All around him, books are overflowing from shelves and crates, all painstakingly collected over the last couple of centuries, and all of them appear to whisper Aziraphale's name. Crowley's never understood why Aziraphale would decide to open a bookshop if he could hardly bear to part with any of his books, even the ones he has no intention of reading. In theory, any of these books might be special enough to revive some of Aziraphale's lost memories, though those memories are more likely to involve hot cocoa and cosy armchairs than Crowley.

He strolls over to the counter, which is stacked neatly with Aziraphale's ledger, correspondence with other bookshop owners, and various book catalogues. _No wonder Aziraphale's coping so well with Hell's insane amount of paperwork._ If Crowley had been trying to prove that Aziraphale ran a bookshop, he'd find everything he'd need on this counter alone. But since Crowley has never been involved in any of this, none of it will provide him with evidence of their friendship. He takes a moment to thumb through Aziraphale's address book, but he's not surprised not to find himself listed. Like himself, Aziraphale would have been too cautious to leave such incriminating evidence out in the open. Crowley's much more likely to find something in Aziraphale's private rooms upstairs.

He's almost reached the stairs when something crunches under his feet. A glance down reveals that he's stepped on the shards of one of Aziraphale's favourite mugs with angels' wings for handles. Crowley lowers himself into a crouch and carefully runs his fingers through the mess. The shards are lying in a puddle of what looks like dried tea, and the bigger pieces are coated with what's probably tea leaves gone mouldy.

His stomach gives an almighty lurch. If Aziraphale hasn't cleaned this up, hasn't repaired the mug himself... Is this where it happened? Brows furrowed, Crowley scans the surrounding area until he finally sees it, an irregularity in the tea puddle's shape. His fingers trace its outline until they reach the spot where a large section of the puddle is just _gone_. Excised by a much larger circle that appears to have sucked everything inside it into the void. Even the layer of dust seems slightly thinner inside than out. And there, on the border, the puddle is smudged by four parallel lines, as if someone has dragged their hand through it. Unbidden, a vision rises in Crowley's mind.

_Aziraphale, cowering inside the circle, its circumference glowing with a vicious red light. Aziraphale, crying, pleading with another, white-robed angel who's watching him dispassionately. Aziraphale, clawing for purchase at the rim of the portal, until the pull becomes too great and, with one last scream, he's dragged into the red glow below._

Squeezing his eyes shut, Crowley springs to his feet with such speed that he ends up swaying for a second or two. Right now, he would like nothing better than to run off and find Aziraphale, if only to make sure he's all right. But of course that would defeat the entire purpose of this visit. He grits his teeth and forces himself to take slow, even breaths. _He's fine. I got him out of the Pits. All I have to do now is find some god-damned proof of our friendship._

Other than the broken mug and puddle, there are no signs of a struggle. On the nearby shelves, not a single item looks out of place. By every indication, Aziraphale had been unprepared and defenceless. Crowley swears. _Damn those blasted Archangels!_ Believing themselves wholly incapable of committing any act of Evil despite all the evidence to the contrary.

After a last glance back, Crowley ascends the stairs to Aziraphale's flat. Upstairs, a nearby doorway catches his attention, the half-open door outlined by a light burning in the room beyond. When he pushes the door fully open, he recognizes the room as some sort of study, filled with knick-knacks and more book shelves. On the mahogany desk, a heavy book's held open by a metal ruler, now both covered by a fine layer of dust. All of this is, indeed, illuminated by a desk lamp still shining brightly. Whatever has prompted Aziraphale to pause in his reading, he must only have expected a short interruption. Otherwise, he would have made use of the frilly bookmark lying nearby and turned off the lamp. He's always been conscientious about things like that.

Curious, Crowley checks the book's title. Apparently, the angel had been reading a heavily annotated, bilingual edition of _War and Peace_ , as if the original version had been too light reading for his tastes. This book's certainly a candidate to bring back with him. While it's obviously no evidence of their friendship, as the last book Aziraphale had been reading before his Fall, it might still help trigger memories of his angelic life. With any luck, those memories would somehow involve Crowley.

Still, that's a long shot, and the book's rather heavy, so he'd better keep looking. Maybe some favourite items of clothing would qualify? At the very least, they'd certainly be easier to carry. Unfortunately, the angel's favourite suit was destroyed during his Fall, but he's always kept a large collection of bow ties. Of course, they, too, would only provide a tenuous connection to Crowley, at best, but he's running out of ideas.

He's idly poking through Aziraphale's wardrobe and private book shelves when a bright green leather book catches his attention. It stands out not only through its size and squarish format, but also through its obvious age. After all, this kind of leather binding, held together by a neat bow of faded gold cord, went out of fashion a century ago. When Crowley flips it open, he knows he's struck gold. A smile spreads across his face. If this doesn't convince Aziraphale, nothing will.

~ * ~ * ~

Hours later, Crowley's sitting on the plateau overlooking Hell's vestibule, gazing down at the valley stretching out below him. While he had originally planned to visit Aziraphale in person, in the end he had decided that he couldn't risk this book, this irreplaceable piece of evidence of their friendship, falling into the hands of other demons and had opted to send Aziraphale a note instead, asking to meet here. He just hopes it will be enough. Hell might pride itself on its bureaucracy, but that doesn't necessarily mean that messages get delivered speedily and to the right addressee. And even if it did reach Aziraphale, what if the former angel doesn't want to meet him?

Keeping an eye out for his friend, Crowley glances out at the valley below. A few millennia ago, it would have been thriving with recently deceased humans. In fact, when he'd first seen it, Crowley had taken its immense size as proof of Lucifer's megalomania. But the humans had surprised him and grown to unimaginable numbers. Soon, the queues had become unmanageable, and senior management had moved the whole registration process into one of the newer, more spacious caverns. So nowadays, it's just demons coming and going, or, very rarely, a romantically inclined human seeking to wrest a loved one from the maws of Hell.

Though it's missing any kind of vegetation and, except for the occasional stray swarm of mosquitoes, the bustling activity of Earthly creatures, for Hell, this is as pleasant as it gets. This close to the surface, the temperature is tolerable, at least by demonic standards. And somehow, despite the long staircase connecting Hell to the human world, some natural light has managed to filter through. At this time of day, dusky moonlight is adding its shine to the luminous rocks.

Crowley's musings are cut short when he finally catches sight of Aziraphale entering the cavern. Hovering by the entrance, Aziraphale's turning his head this way and that, presumably taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. At the sight of the former angel's choice of clothing, Crowley's eyebrows shoot up. Aziraphale's clearly still trying out different outfits to find his own style, and a lot of demons like to dress provocatively, but a leather jacket and trousers, black or otherwise, is not something Crowley would ever have expected Aziraphale to wear. He can't help wondering whether Aziraphale might be trying to emulate _him._

When Aziraphale's searching eyes finally move in Crowley's general direction, Crowley immediately reacts by lifting an arm in greeting. Aziraphale straightens up and acknowledges him with a nod. Then he starts weaving his way up the hills. By the time he arrives, he's clearly winded and taking frequent breaks, during which he leans on his knees. He's taken off his leather jacket and, when he's not using it to fan himself, keeps it hanging loosely over an arm. Clearly, it hadn't occurred to him that he could _fly_ the distance.

For the final steps up the hill, Crowley offers a hand to help him up, which Aziraphale gratefully accepts. By way of greeting, Crowley smirks. “Nice outfit.”

Blushing, Aziraphale averts his eyes. “Oh, I- er, thank you.”

Still wheezing and holding on to his sides, Aziraphale spends some time gazing down at the ancient river, no longer attended by a skeletal ferryman, but still relentlessly winding its way through the valley. Crowley reclines back on the rocks, folding his hands behind his head, and lazily watches Aziraphale admire the cavern. There's no need to rush, after all. The important part is that Aziraphale has agreed to meet him in the first place.

Once he's regained his breath, Aziraphale finally speaks up. “What a lovely view! I had no idea Hell had such delightful spots.”

Crowley sits back up and rests his arms on his knees. “Actually, I'm fairly sure this is the only one. Well, I guess the Landing Pits could be called pretty, in their own harsh way, but it's not exactly the place you'd go for a picnic. You should see Earth, though.”

“I have.”

“You did? When?” Has Aziraphale uncovered more memories?

“Well, I remember the _Garden_ , at least.”

 _Right._ Crowley rolls his eyes. “I'm not sure that counts. I mean, I'll admit Eden was beautiful, but there's so much more to the human world than that.” For a moment, Crowley's on the verge of offering himself as a guide, but they're not quite there yet, and he just _knows_ Aziraphale would refuse. Which reminds him... “Um, thanks for coming! There's something I wanted to show you...” Almost giddy with excitement, he gets up and makes for a nearby crevice to retrieve the book from its hiding place.

Behind him, Aziraphale clears his throat. “Actually, I've been meaning to talk to you.”

Crowley turns. “Really? What about?”

“I...” Aziraphale fidgets with one of his jacket's zip sliders. Then he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and starts over. “The others are saying I Fell from Heaven because of _you_...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no! Will Crowley be able to talk his way out of this accusation?
> 
> What kind of "evidence" did he find, and will it be enough to convince Aziraphale?


	5. Mementoes

The words are ringing in Crowley's ears. His heart plummets and his eyes widen of their own accord. “And you came out here to meet me anyway?” All of a sudden, _he_ 's the one out of breath, making his voice sound hoarse and hollow.

“Well, you _did_ warn me that they might try to trick me into harming others...”

“Oh.” Crowley licks his lips, his mouth distinctly dry. “What did they do?”

Eyes narrowed, Aziraphale wags an accusing finger. “Oh no, you're not changing the topic again. I just thought... I thought that gave you the right to tell _your_ side of the story, that's all.” He bites his lips. “So did you, or did you not, have anything to do with my Fall?”

Crowley closes his eyes with a tired sigh. “Will you let me explain?”

Aziraphale's face crumples. “It's really true, then?”

The sight of Aziraphale's wide eyes and slightly quivering lips makes Crowley's stomach constrict. He'd like nothing better than to proclaim, _no, please, I had nothing to do with it_ , just to make that look of betrayal go away. But that would be a lie, and Aziraphale _deserves_ to know the truth.

He takes a deep breath. “In a manner of speaking. Without my encouragement, you would never have defied Heaven like you did when you sided with me in the matter of the Apokalypse.” Brows furrowed, Aziraphale's listening intently, and Crowley continues. “About two months ago, Armageddon was scheduled to take place on Earth. You know? The ultimate battle between Heaven and Hell?”

Aziraphale stares. “What about the humans?”

Crowley waves a hand. “Oh, they would all have been killed. Collateral damage in the war of Good against Evil.”

“That's terrible!” Aziraphale wrings his hands. “What... what happened?”

“Well, I...” Crowley sighs. “I guess it was selfish of me, but I hated the thought of having to leave Earth and permanently return to Hell. So I sort of goaded you into joining me in an effort to convince the Antichrist to abort the whole deal.”

Aziraphale furrows his brows. “Preventing that kind of mass destruction doesn't sound at all selfish to me. I mean, isn't that a _good_ deed?”

“Try telling that to Heaven.” Crowley rubs his chin. “Which, actually... I guess you _did._ Didn't make a difference, though, because they wanted the war just as much as Hell did. And in truth, it took you a while to come around, too. I don't think you'd ever really opposed divine orders before. Oh, you'd skirted the rules occasionally, which is probably my fault, too, but you'd never openly defied an Archangel's orders. But in the end, you _did_ play your part in preventing the Apokalypse.” He smirks. “While cooperating with a demon, no less.”

“But... Did we succeed?”

“Oh, yeah.” Crowley vaguely points his thumb at the ceiling. “Earth's still up there, positively teeming with humans.”

“So they're still alive, all six or seven billion of them?”

“Yes. Well, at least the ones that weren't already scheduled to die for other reasons. Up there, it's like that whole day's never happened. They've no idea how close they came to extinction.”

Thrusting out his jaw, Aziraphale nods decisively. “Good.” Then he raises his eyes to meet Crowley's. “But what does any of that have to do with my Fall?”

“Don't you see? Heaven didn't appreciate us interfering with their plans. Nor did Hell, for that matter. First they tried to kill us, and when that failed, well... Obviously, _I_ don't know, and _you_ don't remember, but I strongly suspect that Heaven's decided that your disobedience was more than enough reason to make you Fall. Of course, Hell has no such recourse for me.”

Aziraphale knits his brows. “I suppose that makes sense, but...” His head jerks up. “Hang on. Heaven and Hell tried to _kill_ us?”

Crowley nods.

“And they failed? _How?_ ”

“Er...” Crowley scratches an earlobe. “To be honest, I'm not sure I can trust you with that information. If the others ever found out, they'd kill us both.” He chews his lips. “But it won't work again, not now that you're a demon, too. So please refrain from taking a dip in holy water.”

Aziraphale takes a shuddering breath and wraps his arms around himself. “I wasn't planning to.”

“Anyway, it's true, of a sort. I _did_ cause your Fall.” Crowley closes his eyes. “I'm sorry.”

“No, you didn't. From what it sounds like, you made me see _reason_ , and then _I_ decided that I was willing to take the risk. And if we were successful, it was more than worth it. I'm not going to blame you for that.”

Crowley stares at him. “And... And you believe me? Just like that?”

“Well, yes. After all, you were right about _them_.”

 _Right._ He'd forgotten about that. “What did they make you do?”

“Well, thanks to you, they didn't make me do _anything_. But Dagon and Belphegor, they took me down to the other kind of pits, where...” Aziraphale bites his lips. “Where...” Staring into the distance, he trails off.

Crowley nods. “Where they torture human souls, I know.”

After a while, Aziraphale continues in a voice that's almost a whisper. “They tried to get me to crank up the heat. Or to flay some poor soul's skin off their back. Or anything comparable I could come up with myself.”

“Did you do it?”

Aziraphale glares at him. “Of course not. Those poor people...”

“They were sent to Hell for a reason, you know.”

“No one deserves to be tortured for all of eternity. _No one._ ” Aziraphale grits his teeth and, closing his eyes, takes a deep breath. Then, biting his lips, he glances at Crowley. “Did you do it, back in your time?”

Crowley shakes his head. “I Fell long before the Creation of humans. But they like making new demons participate. After all, it kills two birds with one stone.” His lips curl. “Demons enjoy causing suffering, of any kind.”

“You don't.” It's not a question.

“No. I don't.”

Aziraphale cocks his head. “Why ever not?”

“I'm not sure.” Crowley's eyes dart in Aziraphale's direction. “I suppose my friendship with an angel might have had something to do with it. Maybe you acted as a restraining influence.”

Aziraphale's lips quirk into a smile that makes Crowley's heart soar. “The angel on your shoulder?”

“I suppose so. Sounds stupid, doesn't it?”

Aziraphale smiles warmly. “I'm glad I could help. Anyway, thanks for warning me. Knowing that I _could_ refuse made it easier for me.”

Crowley frowns. “There will be consequences, ang-” He bites down hard on his tongue. Then, hoping Aziraphale didn't notice his slip of the tongue, he presses onward. “They may preach all they want about the value of rebellion and chaos down here, but the moment you rebel against _Hell_ , you become a walking target.”

“I don't care. I don't want to be liked for doing the wrong thing. Besides, _you_ seem to manage okay.”

“I never planned any of this. It just sort of happened. And I guess it helps that I've moved out ages ago and only come by to visit.”

“Why do you even bother visiting?” Crowley responds by raising an eyebrow, and Aziraphale flushes. “Oh.” He clears his throat. “Um, why did you want to see me?”

Crowley swallows the answer inching its way up his throat. _I don't need a reason to want to see you._ “Well, you asked me to prove our friendship to you.” While talking, he starts rooting around in the crevice between two large slabs of rocks. Finally, he turns back around. “And I actually _found_ something.” Grinning wildly, he holds up his prize. “Look!”

Aziraphale's eyebrows shoot up. “A book?”

“A very special kind of book. I found it in your bookshop.”

“My bookshop?”

“Yes, your bookshop. Trust me, everything will make more sense in a minute.” Crowley gestures at the rocks. “Please take a seat. This might take a while.”

Aziraphale's glance flickers towards the entrance to Hell. “Um, actually, could we do this another time? I'm sort of skiving off work right now. They'll be wondering where I've gone.”

 _What? No!_ “I hate to burst your bubble, angel, but your job isn't all that important.”

Aziraphale blinks. “Angel?” he repeats softly.

Crowley's face grows hot. “Er, yeah. Sorry. We used to have that argument a lot.”

“About my working too much?” There's an amused tinge to Aziraphale's voice.

“Yes. Holed up in your bookshop all the time.”

“I happen to _enjoy_ reading.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Trust me, I know. My point is that Belphegor, for example, usually doesn't even bother turning up for work, and other than Dagon yelling at him, nothing bad ever comes out of it. And why would you want to read my _reports_ anyway, when you can get much more accurate information straight from the source?”

Biting his lips, Aziraphale looks back and forth between Crowley and the exit, clearly torn between curiosity and his sense of duty. Crowley directs a beseeching gaze at him. “Please. This is important.”

Finally, Aziraphale sighs. “Well, all right.” After spreading his jacket on the ground, he cautiously sits down. Crowley settles down beside him and, almost trembling with excitement, hands him the book.Aziraphale carefully places it on his lap, blows away the dust, and takes his time to reverently stroke the soft leather cover.

Crowley fidgets. “Aren't you going to have a look?”

“Give me a moment, please.” Aziraphale lets his fingers run across the embossed diamond pattern and gently threads the gold cord through his fingers. When he finally flips the book open, a rectangular silver plate slips out. Crowley nimbly catches it and passes it back to Aziraphale, who takes a look and gasps. “That's us!”

Crowley grins. “Yes. This is a photo album. It contains all the pictures you've collected over the years.” He nods encouragingly. “Go on, have a look!”

The picture's held entirely in greyscale and does, indeed, show the two of them, in astonishing detail considering its age. In the foreground, Aziraphale, wearing a light-coloured waistcoat and cravat, is sitting in an ornate wooden chair. His hands are clenched in his lap, and he's wearing a rather fixed smile. Crowley, in customary black, is standing behind him, one of his hands leaning on the back of the chair, his fingertips all but brushing Aziraphale's shoulder. He's wearing a pair of black glasses, and one of his hands is dangling at his side, clutching the rim of a top hat.

Aziraphale's staring at the picture, his brows furrowed. “Why am I looking so nervous?”

Crowley grins. “Because you _were_. Photography had just been invented and you were a bit scared of this new technology. No idea how I managed to convince you to actually take a picture with me. But I think you were pleased with the result. And you _did_ keep the photo.”

After examining the picture some more, Aziraphale carefully lays it aside and returns to the album. The first page is blank, only showing traces of glue, from which apparently the plate had detached. But the next page contains a photo of a group of dapper-looking young men, all smiling into the camera. A rich tapestry in the background and a magnificent chandelier protruding into the picture detail complete the image of an upper-class gathering.

Aziraphale takes his time scanning the photo with an increasingly puzzled expression until, eventually, Crowley decides to help him out. “There, that's you.” He points, even though that's hardly necessary. Aziraphale's smile practically jumps out of the picture. “This must be that gentlemen's club you mentioned a few times. Aside from the usual tea and high-brow discussions, apparently it involved a lot of dancing, too. Does any of that ring a bell?”

Still peering at the picture, Aziraphale shakes his head. He frowns. “I don't see you anywhere, though. Weren't you a member?”

Crowley snorts. “Hell, no. Not my kind of thing.” When Aziraphale glances at him questioningly, he clarifies, “Can you imagine me bowing and twirling?”

A smile blossoms on Aziraphale's face. “I guess not.”

When he turns the page, it's to find another picture of Aziraphale and Crowley. This time, they're both standing in front of an artificial tree and wooden fence. While Aziraphale's beaming straight into the camera, Crowley has his head tilted sideways in Aziraphale's direction, an amused smile playing around his lips. Crowley vividly remembers Aziraphale's excitement, in such stark contrast to their first photography session, and how he'd furtively watched the angel through his usual darkened glasses.

Frowning, Aziraphale picks up the silver plate again. “Why are you always wearing those glasses? Well, always... Twice, so far.”

Crowley sighs. “'Always' sounds about right. And it's because... well, I can't very well go out in public like this, can I?” He gestures at his eyes.

“I don't see why not.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Yes, but you're not a human. Humans tend to freak out if they see something they don't understand. And snake eyes in a human face definitely count. If you ever decide to pay Earth a visit, I'm afraid you'll have to cover up your hands, too.”

Aziraphale morosely picks at the webbing between his fingers. “I take it, this is new, then? It's hard to tell from the pictures.”

“It is. I don't know why, but the demonic transformation always includes some kind of beastly mark. We've all got them, in some variation or other. Like my eyes, or Lucifer's horns.”

“What about the scales?”

 _Scales?_ Nonplussed, Crowley blinks a few times. His confusion must show on his face because Aziraphale proceeds to wordlessly roll up one of the sleeves of his shirt. At about the height of his elbow, pale blue specks start appearing. They spatter his upper arm and, about half way up to the shoulder, begin to coalesce into larger patches of fine turquoise scales. There's something mesmerizing about the way they catch the light, and Crowley can't help staring.

Aziraphale glumly pokes at his scales for a bit, before he covers them up again. “I've got patches of them all over on my arms and back.”

It takes some effort for Crowley to get his voice back. “Um, yeah, those are new, too. But you've seen the others, covered in sores and such. In comparison, yours don't look half bad. And you can hide them easily. Even I have a sign etched into my fucking _cheekbone_. The only reason I can wear short hair now and still blend in on Earth is because the humans have taken to cover themselves with tattoos. I actually think you got off rather lightly.”

Aziraphale scowls. “I don't _want_ to be a demon!”

Crowley sighs. “I'm sorry, angel. I'm afraid there's no way back up.”

“Don't call me that! I'm _not_ an angel. Not anymore...”

He's looking so lost that Crowley reaches out and gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You ought to have been. They made a mistake. And for the record, you're dealing with all this much better than I did.”

Aziraphale's shoulders relax. “You think?”

“Yes.” Crowley repeats the squeeze before letting go. “But please continue. I think you'll like the next one.”

Pouting, Aziraphale spends some more time examining his webbing, before he finally returns his attention to the album on his lap. When he does, he flips the protective tissue with rather more force than necessary, causing it to tear.

Instantly, his expression changes to one of concern and contrition. A look of intense focus appears on his face as he gently runs his fingers along the gash, leaving a trail of unblemished paper behind. Crowley watches this with interest. He's seen Aziraphale treat damaged books like this a thousand times, but he wouldn't have expected Aziraphale to remember that. Come to think of it, maybe he doesn't. Maybe it's an action born of habits that go deeper than conscious memory. Crowley holds his breath, not daring to interrupt Aziraphale's moment of reconnecting with his fondness for books.

When Aziraphale finally focuses on the page in front of him, it's to find a faded newspaper clipping that's accompanied by a grainy photo of himself standing in front of a very familiar store front. He takes his time to study the image. “Is this the bookshop you mentioned?”

“Yeah. You opened it a bit over two hundred years ago. I suppose that article was your attempt to acquire new customers.” Crowley smirks. “Of course, that was before you realized how much of a nuisance they can be.”

When Aziraphale turns his attention on the article, Crowley allows himself to simply enjoy this moment of quiet companionship, watching Aziraphale's eyes flit across the lines. At long last, Aziraphale looks up, a smile playing on his lips. “I'd like to see it sometime.”

Crowley returns the smile. “I could show you around if you want.”

Though Aziraphale doesn't outright agree, there's an undeniable sparkle in his eyes, and he doesn't protest the idea either. Still smiling, Aziraphale returns his gaze to the album and turns to the next page, which contains two official-looking photographs, both showing Aziraphale and Crowley, respectively, in soldiers' uniforms. Despite this common quality, the two pictures are otherwise very different. Aziraphale's standing tall and wearing his peaked forage cap with obvious patriotic pride, his right hand solemnly placed on top of his left breast pocket. Meanwhile, Crowley's scowling under his own piked helmet, one thumb hooked into his leather belt and the other hand stuffed into a trouser pocket.

Crowley continues explaining. “These are from the Great War. The first one, that is. We both participated, though as you can see on different sides. I suppose you added my picture later.”

“You don't look happy.”

“Why would I? I'd seen enough wars to know this one was going to be bad. And as if that wasn't bad enough, I'd been sent to join the aggressor's lines, and my German's always been atrocious.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Wasn't that a problem? Us fighting for different countries?”

Crowley shrugs. “Not more than the usual. After all, we were already quite used to being on opposing sides. We didn't actually face each other on the battlefield, if that's what you're worried about.”

“But...” Aziraphale grimaces. “Do you know if I _killed_ anyone? Did you?”

Crowley sighs. “It was a _war_ , angel, and not our first one, either. I guess we both ended up doing our fair share of killing.” He closes his eyes. “This one turned especially ugly, though. I got out of as fast as I could, and you never liked to talk much about it afterwards, either. And then we both made sure to come up with convincing reasons to stay out of the next one.”

Though he remains silent, Aziraphale's brows knit together.

“If it makes you feel any better, angel, I do think you made a difference. It's been more than a century, but the humans still talk about your Christmas truce.”

Aziraphale shoots him a strange glance. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Saying what?”

“You keep calling me 'angel'.”

Crowley reruns his previous statements in his mind. “Oh.” Warmth creeps up the back of his neck. Tugging at his collar, he grins ruefully. “Sorry. Old habit.”

“You've never done that before.”

“Of course I did.”

“Not recently, I mean.” Aziraphale quirks a smile. “I think I would have noticed.”

“Well...” That's only partly true. Crowley's almost certain that his stream of comforting words by the Pits must have included the term 'angel' once or twice. But with so much else going on at the time, maybe it's not surprising that Aziraphale doesn't remember that. And after that, Crowley had done a much better job at keeping his speech under control. Until now. “Something's changed, I guess. It's easy to forget that you don't remember me.”

“Is that what you used to call me?”

“Pretty much, yeah. And, for the record, you never complained.”

“But I had a _name_.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Obviously. But Aziraphale's such a long name. I mean, four syllables... you guys do like to overcomplicate things.”

“Well, if it helps, _Azazel_ 's shorter...”

“Have you decided to use that, then?” Crowley tries to keep a neutral expression, but he hopes the answer is _no._ After all, a name shapes who you are, and somehow, Azazel would be a subtly different person than Aziraphale, just like Crowley himself had shed part of his identity when he'd decided to go from _Crawley_ to _Crowley_ , small as that change had been.

Sighing, Aziraphale shakes his head. “I know I can't ever turn back. I wish I could, but I know that's impossible. But if I can, I'd like to at least keep my name.” He sends Crowley a worried glance. “Would you mind?”

“Of course not.” Relaxing, Crowley allows a grin to appear on his face. “Less effort for me.”

“Did I call you 'demon', too?”

Crowley's lips twitch. “Not unless you were mad at me.”

“Oh. Did that happen a lot?”

“Not a lot, no. But it should come as no surprise that we didn't always see eye to eye. That said, you were usually quick to forgive me.”

That, at least, still appears to be true. Aziraphale quirks a smile. “All right then, I'll bite. What did I call you?”

“ _Crowley_ , mostly.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “And other than that?” When Crowley remains stubbornly silent, he persists. “Oh, come on. You said we were friends. Surely I had a nickname for you, too.”

Crowley scoffs. Calling Aziraphale 'angel' hardly qualifies as a nickname; it's just a _fact_. Or at least, it used to be... Does that make it a nickname now? Realizing that Aziraphale's still waiting for an answer, Crowley scratches his head. “Um, well... sometimes, very rarely, mind... you'd call me 'dear boy'. But I'd really prefer if you stopped doing that.”

Aziraphale bites his lips, trying, and failing, to hide a smile. “All right. I think I can manage that. And I guess you'll have to come up with a new nickname, too.”

Warmth settles in the pit of Crowley's stomach. A mere week ago, Aziraphale wouldn't have referred this casually to a future involving the two of them on friendly terms. He grins. “Why?”

“It's no longer accurate.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. If that's Aziraphale's only problem, he's not going to change his habits. “A _nickname_ doesn't have to be accurate.” He gestures at the album. “Please go on. There's, like, a ton more pictures.”

There are. In fact, it looks like Aziraphale has kept every picture ever taken of himself or Crowley, including all the ones Crowley took during that brief time when he owned a Polaroid camera in the 1970s. His main subject had been Aziraphale, followed by snapshots of his Bentley, and bottles of wine in varying degrees of emptiness.

Aziraphale keeps turning the pages, occasionally commenting and asking questions. When the first colour photos appear, he pauses to stare at his likeness. “I used to be blond.”

It's a mere statement of fact, but Crowley decides to explain anyway. “Yes, that's another recent change. Your hair lost its colour when you Fell.”

“Are there any other changes I should know about?”

“I don't think so. Your wings used to be white, but you probably remember that. And obviously you lost your memory.”

Aziraphale nods distractedly, but continues fiddling with his silvery curls.

Crowley frowns. “Don't tell me that, after everything else, you're upset about your hair.”

“It's just...” Aziraphale tugs at a forelock. “There are so many changes. Am I still the same person?”

“Of course you are.” Crowley's voice rings with a conviction that makes his ears grow warm. “The hair, the webbing, the scales... all that's just superficial. Deep down, you're still the angel I've known for six thousand years.”

Aziraphale smiles down into his lap, but he continues running his fingers through his hair. “Don't you think this makes me look old?”

 _What?_ “No. Just different. Honestly, I'm having more trouble adjusting to seeing you wear black. And why do you even care? We're immortal.”

Aziraphale's lips twitch. “Calm down, Crowley. I was just teasing.”

 _Oh._ Crowley blinks. This is an aspect of Aziraphale he hadn't seen before.

A smile fixed firmly on his face, Aziraphale continues browsing through the pictures. They'd grown closer in the second half of the twentieth century, and their pictures reflect that. For one, there are a lot more of them together now. The one that Crowley likes best had been taken in a haunted house ride at some kind of fun fair. Framed by artificial cobwebs, it shows Aziraphale, his face contorted into a grimace of terror, hanging onto Crowley's arm as if his life depended on it. Crowley, on the other hand, looks like he's having the time of his life. The memory makes Crowley grin. That had been fun, but unfortunately Aziraphale had been too shaken to wish to repeat the experience. He casts a speculative glance at the former angel. Maybe if they were to visit another scary house, Aziraphale wouldn't be quite as easily spooked anymore.

Another photo shows Aziraphale on a wooden stage, dressed in a ruff and pantaloons, and holding some kind of prop. Aziraphale darts a nervous glance at Crowley. “That's not a real human skull, is it?”

Crowley shakes his head. “Plaster, I think. You were one of the winners in a Hamlet recital competition.” At Aziraphale's questioning glance, he elaborates. “It's a play by...” He shakes his head. “Never mind. The important thing is that it's... it _was_ your favourite play in, well, ever. You must have seen and read it a hundred times, but you still had me quiz you in preparation of the contest.”

In truth, while word perfect, Aziraphale's recital had been rather spoiled by his obvious enthusiasm. Crowley would hardly consider himself an expert in these matters, but he'd been fairly sure that a morbid monologue such as the one Aziraphale had picked was not supposed to be delivered with an almost maniacal grin. But he couldn't bear to see his friend disappointed, and so he'd rigged the voting to ensure Aziraphale a respectable third place. In the picture, Aziraphale's beaming as if he'd been crowned the sole victor. His delighted smile easily outshines the other two winners, who are both wearing sensible black and more sedate, if slightly puzzled, expressions.

Finally, Aziraphale uncovers the last picture, which shows them toasting to each other in a restaurant. Crowley explains, “This was just after the non-Apokalypse. Surviving _that_ seemed like an excellent reason to celebrate. I actually don't remember much, but I think you got a waiter to take a photo of us.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I still can't believe we've been eating actual human food.”

“ _You_ were eating, angel. I never really developed a taste for it and mostly came along for the drinks. We both like drinking alcohol.”

“But angels and demons don't _need_ to eat.”

“True. However, that's never stopped you from enjoying it.”

“Seriously? That's just... weird.”

Crowley smirks. “So I've been telling you for ages.”

Aziraphale quickly thumbs through the rest of the album. “The rest's all blank.”

“Yeah, that was the last one.” Crowley purses his lips. “You Fell shortly after that.”

“There's a lot of room for more pictures.”

“We could always add more, I guess.” Crowley chews his lips for a while, then he releases his breath. “Aziraphale... Do you think we could ever be friends again?”

Aziraphale smiles at him and bumps his shoulder into Crowley's. “You know what? I think we already are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... what did you think? Was there anything you particularly liked or disliked?
> 
> Also, if you enjoyed this story, you might also want to check out my other (Good Omens) stories, too. :)


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